Hi lovely readers. I know it's been ages and I'm so so sorry. Part of it is I've just finished midterms and part of it is this was a surprisingly difficult chapter to write. If you consider the over-exaggeration, reminiscent of "Lobster Crawl" (I'm mainly referring to the scene where she touches his eye; it seem purposely overdone) in conjunction with the way Robin reacts every other time someone beats the stuffing out of Barney (see "Nannies" and "PS I Love You"), it seems like she's got some sort of multi-layered denial going on here. She stops pretending she doesn't want to sleep with Barney because it's easier to play that up than admit she's worried, which carries far heavier emotional connotations. Even when Marshall tells her its a lie, there's a long pause and she gets this, "Oh, shit. This is bad" look on her face. I had the hardest time trying to capture that and I'm still not sure I did it justice, but I promise "Benefits" will be up later this week and it's going to be a fun one :) Please enjoy.
It's the eyes. Soft and shining, flashing determination or something more. Fingers brush when he hands her his jacket. Grey merino like his eyes, soft and shining, like the hands of man who fights for everything but never like this. Bare knuckles, bare bones. Bare body, broken and bruised and bleeding. Lust, not worry, ties her stomach in knots as he walks out the door.
Hair disheveled, tie askew, brow furrowed gingerly. Seeping warmth swells with the roar of the crowd. Desire, not relief. It's the eye.
Laughing a little too loudly, and she can't help clutching his arm. Solace in a rippling tension that bespeaks latent strength, in all that he hides behind soft, shining silk and grey merino. Sexy, not settling. She knows exactly what she'd like to do to him.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. At least, it would have if she'd stopped to think about it. If she'd stopped to think at all. The sting of reality like a slamming door because part of her still believes it's a good idea. It's so much more than just the eye. That terrifies her most of all.
"Oh...oh, I forgot. Uh...tonight is no good. I, uh, I can't go to the hockey game tonight. I've got that, uh...that, uh...that, uh...that, uh...that...uh, that..."
Shutting the door on further contemplation because actions speak louder and she can't find the words. Head over heart. Her head says it's nothing, but her heart is pounding a staccato truth she doesn't want to hear.
The door slams shut and he's up against the wall with his shirt undone before he knows she's on him. Deft hands and passionate kisses, a swell of seeping warmth. It's the eye.
Jacket a pile on the floor. Grey merino, soft like the hands of a man who only fought for himself until the day he found something worth fighting for.
Satisfied silence and the seeping warmth of his body against her. Tucked under his arm, hers draped on his chest. It seems redundant. Actions speak louder and hers said it all, but words that don't need saying still need to be heard. Like an afterthought, whispered in the darkness, echoing the staccato rhythm of her heart.
"PS...I love you."